


The Fallen God

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, F/M, Gen, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic is Real, Pirates, letting Sherlock's piratical dreams come true
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a knight sent to slay a dragon decimating an important island. Sherlock is a pirate seeking treasure on that same island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for months and finally figured out how to flesh it out. You can expect the tags to change as the story continues. Updates will, hopefully, be fairly regular, but as I'm sort of writing as I go along, I can't really offer up any promises. They won't be few or far between, though, of that I can assure you!  
> Anyway, enough of my natterings. I hope you enjoy!

The sky was dark and textured, and the smell of rain hung in the air like a threat. For a moment, the shadowed world was illuminated by a violet-white crack, closely followed by a deep rumble.

Shortly after, the thunder sounded.

The inhabitants of this island were few, and they were all afraid. The ones who stayed did so out of bleak necessity, though they lived in fear. For now, they all shut themselves away inside their fragile homes, foolishly certain that they were protected from both the storm and the beast. They knew in the shadowed recesses of their beings, though, that there was no hiding from the beast.

As the world flashed viciously daylight bright from the lightning, the beast snarled again. He shook out his shoulders, wings shuddering with movement. Thunder rolled across the sky again, and after stretching his neck and massive paws, he dropped from the cliff like a stone. His wings snapped out and caught the air, holding him aloft for a moment before he began pumping his shoulder joints, forcing his own flight.

Tonight, as the storm boiled and the man in the mountain raged, there would be no survivors.

* * *

The king frowned heavily as the nervous young miner clasped his hands in supplication and begged for help. He and his family had been forced to flee their home on the nearby island of Basker, like so many families before and after. The kingdom's harbours were nearly overflowing, and the Basker transplants had nowhere to stay. They were still his subjects, and he knew that he absolutely had to ensure their safety, but there was really no way to do so.

"You are not the first to come to me with this," the king said wearily. "I have been hearing about the beast on the mountain for months, since your neighbours first started coming here."

"If you'll pardon my impudence, Your Majesty, why have you not sent anyone?"

The king offered a small smile to the man kneeling at his feet.

"Trying to get soldiers to volunteer for a mission like this is a bit like trying to get a rock to float. It simply does not happen. But I shall send some of my best knights to slay the Beast of Basker."

A ragged cheer rose from the crowd. The miner exhaled heavily, likely the fist proper exhale since the beast began ravaging the island. A bit behind his throne, the king heard his knights sigh in a much more fatigued fashion than the poor miner. They had all heard stories of the havoc and damage wrought by the beast, and no one was exactly looking forward to running at it with their swords drawn.

Still, they would be shipped out as soon as possible, and the beast would be slain. Of that, the king was certain. He had the best knight the world could offer, and if he couldn't kill the beast, no one could.

* * *

Sir John Watson, the best defender Londos had ever known, polished his sword with something like resignation thick in his throat.

When he had gone off to become a soldier in the king's army, he hadn't expected to be good at it. He was like rage unleashed on the battlefield. He'd risen through the ranks quickly, and he'd been one of the first soldiers to be made a knight; usually, knights began training at a young age and were recruited from noble families. John Watson was undoubtedly special.

Despite being special, though, he was trepidatious. He was _afraid_. He had bought his family some grand standing with his meteoric ascent, and he was afraid that they might lose everything if he died. And he was positive that he would die when he faced the beast. He had dreamed of fighting dragons, like any young boy, but when faced with the reality, he couldn't even feel fear. It was just a tired acceptance. He would die on that island, and that was all there was to it.

He didn't know if the beast would be killed, though. Gods, he hoped so.

He and the others would be shipped off in the morning. The harbour would be bright and exuberant and crowded. Banners would wave and passers-by would cheer, and he would only be able to offer sad, grim smiles. Such was the fate of a dead man walking.

Now, John had no skill whatsoever in foretelling, and his certainty was based entirely in speculation. He could have asked the Seer if he would survive so that his feelings could rely a bit more heavily on reality, but he made John nervous. He would have to wallow in his absurd pseudo martyrdom instead.

A quiet knock sounded against his door, breaking him out of his self-pitying reverie.

"Come in," he called, careful to keep his voice even and calm. The door opened and another of the knights slipped into his room, smiling broadly.

"Are you excited for tomorrow?" he asked, perching on the hard wooden chair near the desk. Though his hair was grey and his skin was showing signs of his age, Gregory Lestrade was every bit the cheerful ruffian he'd been when he was first knighted. He and John had quickly become friends, though he wasn't aware of the black moods John occasionally fell into.

"Something like that," he acceded.

"Yeah, well, you don't look too eager, mate. In fact, you look like you're about to fall over." Greg leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and scrutinised his friend.

"I'm fine, Greg."

The other knight hummed his disbelief, but didn't press the issue further.

"All right, well, are you going to be at the banquet tonight? You know that your lady will be there, and that she'll be swooning over your manliness and loyalty to the crown and all that."

John barely restrained a small grimace. Sarah was lovely and all, but he couldn't see himself marrying her. He would if she was the most advantageous match for his family, and he would be perfectly content, but he knew that he wouldn't grow to love her, not really. And if he was married, he wouldn't scarper off for the next big adventure that presented itself to him, though he would always want to.

Perhaps he was wrong to choose the army.

"I don't know why you're so determined to think of her as 'my lady,'" he pointed out drearily. "She's nice, I suppose, but she's hardly mine."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"If you insist." He then got to his feet, stretching out a bit before patting his friend on the shoulder. "Come on, come to the banquet. It'll do more good than sitting around and thinking about your imminent demise. And don't look at me like that, it's written all over you. Now, up, let's go eat all the king's food and drink all of his wine and put it out of our minds till tomorrow."

John smiled up at his fellow knight and got to his feet, giving a sort of truncated nod.

"I suppose you're right," he said, following the other man out into the corridor. Greg gave him a broad grin.

"I always am."

"Oi, don't get cocky, Lestrade."

"All right, fine. Let me have this since I'm never right."

"That's more like it."

* * *

Greg Lestrade thought of himself as a handler of knights. He helped to train the young fools whose families thought the distinction might prove useful. He'd trained John in the finer points of his new role, sharpening skills honed as a soldier. He'd found John to be one of the best of the bunch, and they had become friends almost immediately.

He saw something in the man, though, that he knew he wasn't meant to see. There was something like a fine, gauzy darkness in him, and although it didn't appear often, it was quite distinctly _there_. It wasn't quite sorrow or anger, just a simple blackness clinging to the inner edges of his skin and occasionally leaching out to where Greg could see it. He let John have his blackness, as any friend ought. Usually, he just stood off to the side so he could reach out if John needed it without being in the way.

John was laughing and drinking and having as grand a time as he could with the guests, forcing himself to have fun, or some approximation thereof.

"It's absolutely ridiculous that we're being sent out to battle an _animal_ ," muttered one of the knights, a weaselly fellow Greg had trained a few years back. He was moaning to Sally Donovan, who had trained in the same group as that other man. She was one of the first female knights to be added to the regiment, and one of the best Greg had ever trained. It was a pity that she associated so closely with Anderson, as too much time spent with him was starting to leave her jaded and snappish. The pair grumbled between themselves as the party spun around them, and Greg could see their fear.

The free chair at Greg's right scraped back and returned with a rounded body and a mischievous smile.

"Hello, Greg," came the cheerful greeting. Greg's answering smile was tired and perhaps a bit dull.

"Hello, Mike."

Michael Stamford, known as Mike to his friends, was better known around the kingdom as the Seer. Everything was available to this joyful man. He could read futures with terrifying accuracy, see across infinite distances, and view thoughts like pictures painted for his perusal. While he only used his talents when asked, he still made everyone around him just a tiny bit nervous. That was too bad, too, as Mike was actually a decent bloke once one got over his abilities.

"So, going off on a big adventure—that must be exciting!"

"It's _something_ ," Greg mumbled.

Mike chuckled and reached out, filling a goblet with wine. Silence stretched out between them, uncomfortable on one end and perfectly fine on the other. After a few minutes, Greg cleared his throat nervously and leaned in close to confer with the Seer.

"Can you tell me anything about this mission? Anything at all?" he asked, hating the pleading note in his voice. After a moment, Mike nodded his assent. He closed his eyes and tucked himself a bit further into his chair, getting comfortable. Greg watched the prophet's eyes race beneath his eyelids, and when he spoke, it was with a deeper, raspier voice that somehow sounded nothing at all like the man shaping the words.

"Your friend is a Healer. Do not let him ignore his duties in his fear. He must learn his ability, and he must use it on that night. There will be a master, a scientist, an intellect for the ages and you must listen to him. There is a mighty dragon on the tallest mountain, a guardian of something far more terrible than this world has seen." Mike opened his eyes, blinked, and continued in his normal voice. "A lot of it is rather foggy. It's strange."

"That's a bit ominous," Greg said, voice breaking in a nervous laugh. "Why do you think? Something to do with the dragon?"

Mike shook his head sharply.

"No. Dragons are powerful, but not like this. Whatever is blocking me is very strong. It is extraordinary, and it is terrible. I'm sorry, Greg."

"It's fine, you did what you could. Thanks, though, what you told me ought to be helpful."

Again, the diviner shook his head. "No, not for that. For something that will happen. I'm sorry."

And before Greg could ask what that meant, Mike got to his feet and blended into the crush of bodies filling the great room. The knight was left in fearful confusion, wondering what on earth would happen that would be so awful.

He looked around, catching faces scattered round the table before locking on John. A Healer. Most Healers discovered their abilities much earlier in life, usually in their middle teens. They trained and learned for years and years, honing their gifts until they could control them completely. People rarely heard of Healers coming to their own as late as John was expected to, well into their thirties. When this did happen, though, it was usually extraordinary. These people were wells of tremendous power. John was something quite decidedly special indeed.

* * *

"I don't think you quite grasp the situation," a voice like night said, words creeping across a creaking deck to find their mark in the starlight. "Did you not hear me when I explained, or were you stupid enough not to listen?"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but some of the others are nervous."

"I don't care about you or any of the others being nervous!" the dark voice bit out. "The intel alone is valuable—the _treasure_ is even more valuable. Well beyond a king's ransom. This is the ransom of those who kidnap _gods_."

"I know you don't want to think about it, but what if they do something rash?"

"Anyone plotting mutiny will be taken care of very quickly, of that you can be assured. Now, stop nattering at me and go do something. Raise morale, cook, steer the bloody ship, I don't care. Just go make this right!"

The deckhand ran off before proper rage could be bestowed. The captain slunk off into the cabin, door slamming shut in its frame as he stalked over to his desk.

A pale hand swept reverently over a crisp map, the location of the greatest treasure ever to be hidden away stowed safely in a roiling mind.

Come hell, high water, or idiots threatening mutiny, Captain Sherlock Holmes would find the treasure of the Fallen God if it was the last thing he did.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke slowly, eyes bleary and tired. He'd kept the wine to a minimum, but he'd had a terrible night's sleep. When he was able to sleep, he was haunted by nightmares. He couldn't quite remember his dreams, but he continually woke sweating and screaming.

"You look a fright," Greg said when the knights gathered at the harbour. Just as John had predicted, the harbour was full of banners and jeering faces and so much noise. It all grated horribly.

"Better than you, anyhow," John quipped. His heart wasn't in it, though, and Greg could tell. He bumped his elbows against John's ribs, smiling companionably.

"Come on, don't fret. We'll be fine."

John's nod was slow and a bit uncertain, but he would have to believe Greg. He'd never been so afraid before a mission, even when he was a soldier in a warzone. It was absolutely devouring him, but there was nothing to do but try to shake it off and follow his orders.

The smile he offered up was shaky and uncertain, but it was good enough. Greg patted him on the shoulder and led him up the gangway and onto the ship. As busy as the harbour was, the ship was a buzzing cacophony of knights, sailors, and various necessary people. Everyone bustled about, looking so sure and capable, and all John could do was follow dumbly after his fellow knight. They wove around people and ducked below deck, where it was cool and dark and quiet.

"Look, I've my own cabin, but I'll share with you if you don't think you're up to bunking with the others," Greg said as they wound through the maze inside the ship. Water sloshed against the hull, the sound close and a bit nerve-wracking.

"All right, thanks," John found himself sighing. He didn't always have nightmares, but when he did, they were bad. He would feel awful if he ended up waking everyone up for some bad dreams. None of them had ever been soldiers, and none of them would understand. Greg, however, had been part of the police force before the king recruited him, and he had certainly seen some terrible things.

They ducked into the tiny room designated to Greg and his new cabinmate, dropping off their rucksacks and taking a moment or two to get properly acclimated to the feeling of being on a boat. John had been on a ship twice before, and he mainly remembered both trips as a lot of wobbling and a lot of throwing up. Hopefully, there would be a lot less of each en route to the island.

"Have you ever traveled by boat before?" Greg asked before they left the minuscule cabin, practically reading John's mind. However, his thoughts on water-based travel were likely painted clearly over his face.

"Twice, but neither time was particularly enjoyable."

"Seasickness?" Greg asked sympathetically. John only nodded, face set in a grim line. He fished around in the leather pouch hanging from his belt until he found one of the little lozenges the court Healer had given to him. "Here, suck on this for a while, it'll help."

John took the proffered sweet, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at Greg.

"Peppermint?"

"Yeah, it helps to stave it off, but there's also a bit of a little trick to it, courtesy of the court Healer. The magic in that ought to keep you good for a couple of days. Just come to me when you start feeling queasy, but if you throw up on me, I'll throw you overboard."

"Thanks, mate."

"Any time. Now, let's go see to those scurvy dogs above us."

"'Scurvy dogs'? Greg, I don't really think sailors really talk like that."

"Well, they ought to. Come along, Watson. That's an order."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

Not so far from the Londos harbour, Captain Holmes paced the deck of the _Scarlet Aria_. Years ago, this ship had belonged to the king, named the _Fleet Promise_. Sherlock was the third owner and the first to change that moronic name. A ship as beautiful as this deserved a more dignified name, and he had seen to that immediately.

At the moment, he was working out the final kinks in the path to Basker. It didn't matter that the crew was anxious about this plan, they would follow it to the letter, and Sherlock would find the Fallen God's treasure. It would be his grand defining action, and it would be wonderful. He would be able to escape the shadow thrown over him and step forth with a name that struck fear in hearts. He would be the greatest pirate to ever sail the sea.

His dreams of grandeur were interrupted with a soft knock against the door to his cabin. The captain sighed heavily, tapping his ring-laden fingers against his polished desk.

"Come in, if you must," he called sullenly. Miss Molly Hooper, the daughter of a butcher and a fierce thing wrapped up in smiles and jumpers, walked in. She gave him a tiny, nervous smile topped with a rosy flush that was more than the cool sea breeze brushing against her cheeks. It was obvious that she was in love with the captain, though significantly less so than before, when he'd first brought her aboard. She had been easy to overlook, but Sherlock had seen the potential in the nervous girl and made her part of her crew right away.

"Oh, erm, hello, Captain," she stammered out. He gave her one of those big, obviously false smiles that spurred her to speak.

"Yes, hello, Molly. Did you need something?"

"Uh, yes. Angelo is asking for the final coordinates, and, um, well, most of the crew is a bit nervous."

Sherlock fairly growled in his frustration, gathering up the things Angelo needed of him. He thrust them at her, leaving her to scramble to keep everything from falling to the floor.

"Let the crew be as nervous as they like," he drawled, careful to keep his voice steady and only a bit hostile. "In the end, I am the one paying them, and if they don't do my bidding, they'll regret it. And there is nothing to fear about the island of Basker!"

He sent Molly out with the pile of paper and the angry message, slamming the door shut behind her. He spun on the heel of his well-polished boot and threw himself onto the velvet lounge beneath the grand window overlooking the churning water. It would be easy to comfort his crew, fearful though they were. They were idiots, the lot of them, and easy to manipulate. If he decided to go out there and converse, they would all find themselves content and willing to sail straight for certain doom at his order.

However, he was sure that if he went out to speak with his crew, he would find his brain melted and leaking from his ears. He wasn't particularly keen on that outcome, so he remained aloof in his cabin.

They didn't need to know that there was a good reason for their trepidation, of course. There were rumours of a huge beast guarding the mountain that housed the treasure, and Sherlock would have cast them aside if he hadn't seen the damage inflicted by a failed looter. He knew there was something on that island, and that whatever it was, it was dangerous. The crew was, for the most part, meant to serve the simple function of distraction as he got the treasure. There were very few people on this ship with whom he had an emotional connection, and of that group, he would only admit it to on of them. Other than them, well, everyone was disposable.

He sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and allowed the thrumming sea to lull him to complacency.

* * *

On the island of Basker, the beast stretched his wings and opened his gaping maw. His teeth glistened in the rose gold light of dawn. Blood, saliva, and venom dripped from his fangs and pooled at his feet.

He had flown through the night and snapped up the remaining survivors like they were nothing. They were nothing. They did not sate his hunger, that awful empty pit that swirled and overtook his stomach and was his penance. No matter how much bone, sinew, muscle, or blood he devoured, he was _starving_. He was perpetually hungry, as he had been for the past few thousands of years. He could eat and eat and eat, and still he would feel the hunger.

The beast knew that the hunger would not dissipate until the man in the mountain had fulfilled his own sentence, and despite his rage, there was nothing he could do to hasten it.

He knew he should never have listened to that fool.

* * *

Though he was quite disappointed by the lack of ridiculous jargon from the crew, Greg was thrilled to hear some of the sailors singing shanties under their breaths.

He and the other knights gathered at the galley to get their food. The sky had grown dark and the stars shone exuberantly, nearly blinding the blackness. John stood at his elbow, shivering slightly as the cold sea breeze brushed along his bare neck and exposed wrists.

"I don't remember it being this cold on the sea," John groused, wrapping his arms round his chest and shrugging into himself. "It's June. It should be warmer than this, right?"

Greg laughed a bit, smiling down at the once-soldier. "The weather does what it likes. I've got an extra fleece if you need it, though."

John, stoic and stubborn as he was, shook his head and continued to shiver as the line moved through the galley. The older knight just rolled his eyes and took the bowl thrust at him by the cook. He leaned against the rail, watching the sailors an his knights swirl around the deck but never quite touch. They were of two very distinct castes, and it was painfully obvious in the way they took pains to avoid one another. He and John were the sole exemptions, really, neither born to the nobility they were part of now. The elite would fraternise with the salt of the earth provided that salt somehow managed to raise itself to their glorious echelon.

"So we're to expect this gruel for the next week and a half?" John asked, sidling up to his friend and standing beside him. He spooned up some of the glop and let it fall back into the bowl with an unappetizing sound.

"You'd better learn to love it," Greg warned, shoving a spoonful of his own porridge into his mouth. He wasn't particularly looking forward to eating thin porridge three times a day for the next ten days, but when starvation was his only other option, he certainly wouldn't turn his nose up at it.

"Good thing you gave me that sweet."

Greg's answering smile was small, but it was bright enough.

They chattered aimlessly as they slowly emptied their bowls, watching the men and women. There were more female sailors than knights, which Greg found to be a telling sign as to which caste was better. He was the one to petition to the king, asking that he allow women to join the ranks. He'd seen so many promising and clever girls fall by the wayside because they were only good for marrying and birthing. His own wife had been one of them, before she'd been taken from him. This king seemed to be a more modern man, though, and the first group of girls had been admitted into the ranks within the year.

Despite the group's reluctant acceptance of that change, they were still a bit wary around lower classes. Despite the fact that Greg had been a police officer and had trained the little idiots, they still sort of looked at him from the corners of their eyes, as though they were afraid that he might snaffle away their valuables if they weren't vigilant. John was luckier on this front, as he was fairly cagey about his upbringing. Only Greg really knew that he'd been born poor as a temple-mouse.

"Yep, that was precisely as delicious as I thought it would be," John said, a wry smile twisting his mouth as he let his spoon clatter in his bowl. "I can't possibly see how eating this _all the time_ will get old."

"Well, it beats going hungry," Greg said lightly, shrugging. He had only eaten about half of his gruel, and he wasn't quite sure whether he'd finish it.

"Barely."

* * *

Deep within a labyrinth dungeon on a seemingly inconsequential island, the man in the mountain stilled for the first time in what might have been forever. He looked up, studied the walls of his prison, and smiled.

Outside, a storm began to brew and the world lay hushed as it waited for it to break. There was something coming, brought in on the wind.

The man in the mountain began to laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Sails cracked and whipped as the wind shoved against them. Masts creaked with the force of the assault. The ship skipped over the churning waves like a thing come alive, and all hands were on deck, steering her jauntily forward. Sea birds wheeled in the sky, black against the white light of the sun above them.

John smiled at the warming sun and cooling spray as it played against his skin. That lozenge Greg had given him the previous night had done the trick, and he felt perfectly fine, content even. One of the sea birds, likely an albatross, cried out before diving into the frothing water. John's eyes trailed lazily after it, crinkling with the force of his smile as it broke the surface.

"You're lucky you got the floor," a familiar voice griped as Greg approached. He rubbed his back dramatically, stretching like an arthritic cat. "That hammock was terrible."

"Shall we switch tonight?"

"Not on your life, Watson." Greg turned to the water, squinting against the sun playing against the undulations. "Do you see that?"

John looked around the endless blueness, looking for whatever his friend had noted. Sure enough, there was a dark spot against the horizon, like a mirage in the sparkling blueness. He noted the thread-thin spires rising from its body, the steady way with which it moved.

"There haven't been reports of ships in the area," Greg said softly. "And there's nothing between Londos and Basker. Think they're lost?"

John shrugged, turning back to face the deck.

"Could be. They'll be set right when they reach the harbour."

"Probably. And it is a pretty straight shoot. They'll be fine."

"Yes. So, is it time to get our breakfast gruel yet?"

* * *

Sherlock smiled as he saw the Londos flag whipping from the mast of the only other ship around. It was a perfect bounty, for more reasons than he was willing to divulge.

"Hoist false colours!" he called out, to whichever crew member was responsible for the flags. Soon enough, the Belgrave flag was waving on the mast, a cheerful greeting to the Londos ship. He was thinking about whether to cast the red or black Roger when Molly Hooper skittered up to him, swords clanging against her hips.

"Mrs Hudson believes that they're sailing to Basker," she said breathlessly. He smiled and resisted patting her on the head like a good little messenger. He often used Molly as a relay to speak to his navigator when he was unable to meet with her himself.

"And isn't _that_ lucky?" he crowed, grinning down at Miss Hooper and her jumper. She had a fondness for knitting, and often made herself woolen things that killed the empty days and provided warmth from the harsh salty coldness. Despite this mundane hobby, she sort of terrified the captain; he'd seen her cut down men thrice her size with a smile on her face. Truth be told, he didn't recruit her to give her a chance at something—he did so because he was selfish and be wanted her on his ship before someone else got her on their crew.

"Right. So, will we give quarter?" she asked. He restrained a slight shudder at the excited gleam in her eyes.

"Molly, do we ever give quarter to Londos ships?"

She nodded sagely, deciding that it was a foolish question after all.

"I'll let them know to hoist the red."

She scurried off at that, leaving him smiling at the frothing water. She did know quite well by now. He liked to cast the image that he never spared a soul when they took a Londos ship, especially when they had that wretched seal flying beneath the country's flag. Usually, he ransacked the ships, despite boarding under the red flag, leaving many survivors. He rarely killed, though he couldn't say the same of his crew. However, while he did this with merchant ships and was a bit lenient with the navy, he never faltered when the idiot king sent out his own legion. These ships were almost always destroyed. There had been one exception to that rule, and the _Scarlet_ was a fine exception indeed.

They sailed closer to the friendly ship, hateful flag cracking in the wind above Sherlock's head. Nearly everyone on the other's deck was standing at the rails, jaws open and mouths agog. The idiots hasn't been expecting another ship to be sailing here, especially not after what had happened at Basker. He put down his scope and grinned at the fools.

"Hoist the colours!" he shouted, and the Londos flag was quickly replaced with the red Roger. He watched as the Londos ship began to churn with movement, both decisive and panicked. With an unmistakable sense of glee, he and his crew boarded the ship and began destroying everything in his sight.

* * *

Greg and John instantly snapped into a sort of usefulness, drawing their swords and fending off attackers. From the corners of his eyes, Greg saw his knights looking more worried and confused than was helpful. He restrained a groan as he sliced one of the pirates down the leg. A red flag decorated with a white skeleton whipped frantically in the wind as the knights and sailors and pilots fought. The battle raged fairly quickly, with most of the pirates incapacitated. Greg looked over at John to make sure he was all right.

There were scratches all over, but he was looming over a fallen pirate and looking all right but for the seeping blood. He had the pointed tip of his sword just an inch away from the pirate's pale, exposed neck.

"Did you _really_ think you could take this ship?" the knight asked sharply. He was boiling fury, barely contained and ready to scald. His boot rested solidly on the pirate's chest.

"Did you honestly think that my crew was this small?" the fallen man asked with a small laugh. He scrabbled to unbutton his shirt cuff and a revolver dropped into his hand. Before John could knock it away, the pirate lifted it and shot into the air. Barely a moment later, a second group flooded from the second ship, led by a small woman with two huge swords and a snarl on her face.

The tables turned quickly, toppling over and crushing the king's force.The first wave had clearly shown mercy; this group was ruthless and cheerful as they cut down sailors and knights alike.

John was sufficiently distracted to allow the dark-haired pirate to spring to his feet and push him viciously against the rail, hands at his neck. Greg was right behind the pirate, wrenching him off his friend and throwing him to the deck like nothing.

"We're trained fighters," Greg bit out, stalking closer to the stranger. His face was contorted in a snarl as he advanced. "At the very least, John and I have killed before. Look at all that gold you wear—you're obviously the captain. So tell me, Captain," he growled, grabbing the pirate by the back of the neck and bringing him close, "would they miss you?"

"Of course not," the captain said flippantly. When he looked Greg in the eye, a grin unfurled across his features, dark and malicious. "Would you be missed?"

And before Greg could respond, vicious pain bloomed in his gut. He gasped with the agony of it, hands slipping uselessly away from the pirate. He staggered back, eyes finally falling on the bloodied sword stuck through his belly.

It was so red, rushing from the wound like it was eager to be free. It was so red.

* * *

John watched in horror as Greg, skewered through with a gleaming cutlass, fell to his knees. His face was ashen and grey, stretched in agony and shock. Before anything could be done, Greg slumped forward, choking out a wet grunt as he accidentally pushed the sword further through. John slashed blindly at his adversary and rushed forward to do _something_ to save his friend. Behind him, he heard a metallic sound and a wet slash, followed closely by a body falling. He didn't care which had fallen.

Blood was starting to well and pool around Greg's body, though he refused to think of him that way. It wasn't just Greg's body, it was _Greg_. He was still alive, still breathing, though weakly. That was all he needed.

"Oh, gods," John gasped as he came to terms with his ineptitude. Did he pull the sword free? Did he turn his friend over? What was he supposed to do? He scrunched his eyes closed, shutting out the hideousness of his dying friend and his inability to do _anything_.

And then, out of nowhere, something seemed to click in his head. It felt like remembering something he hadn't known he'd even forgotten, familiar and strange and a bit unsteady, but he didn't doubt it for a second. His body acted of its own accord, with his mind watching distantly in the background. He sat Greg up and slid the sword free of his belly. Before anything but blood could rush forth, he laid his hands over the spreading red-black wound and closed his eyes, concentrating on something he barely knew.

It felt like slow lightning crackling in the space between skin and muscle, thrumming in his veins. It felt like molten gold pooling in his fingers and palms. It felt like fire searing the area between his palms and his friend's wound. It was power, hot and bright and dangerous and _his_. Gods, it was amazing.

As this all happened, he felt movement beneath his outstretched hands. His eyes flew open and he saw that the wound was gone, though Greg's stomach was still streaked and caked in blood.

"What did you do?" the dark-haired pirate gasped, stepping back and staring at Greg's missing injury. The recently-dying knight sat up of his own accord and grinned at John.

"Didn't know you were a Healer, did you, mate?"

"A what?" John gasped, falling back and staring at his bloodied hands. They shone slightly with something unharnessed and deep. John was no Healer. He was a knight and a soldier, nothing more than that. He wasn't anything special. He was just John Watson.

"A Healer?" the dark pirate asked, sweeping forward and kneeling in front of John, grabbing one of his blood-stained hands. Were he in the right mindset, John would have snatched his hand back and attached the pirate, but he was reeling from this discovery.

"This changes everything," the pirate said, turning the hand over and studying his knuckles. "I changed my mind, I'm giving quarter after all. Molly!"

John stared blankly at the young woman drenched in blood and grinning like it was her birthday and she'd just gotten the most wonderful present. The air was still and coppery, the battle no longer raging around them. It was nearly silent, save the occasional guttural moans escaping the wounded.

"Yes, Captain?" the woman, Molly, chirped.

"I've changed my mind, we are taking prisoners. Just these two. Find some rope and bind them, I'll—"

"No!" Greg cried, scrambling to his feet. "Not until John's healed my knights. We'll go willingly once everyone is all right, understood?"

The captain scoffed, but there was something like mercy as he took his eyes from John's hands to his face. "Yes, all right. You can heal everyone, but make it quick and then we'll head off. I'm very interested in knowing why the king sent a bunch of nights to Basker."

John shook his head weakly.

"No, I can't do it, Greg. I'm not a Healer. It was something else."

Greg took his hands from the captain's loose grip and pulled him to his feet.

"That's an order, John," Greg said softly, kindly. "Get out there and heal them."

John was torn between ignoring his orders and following them, and in the end, his military nature caught up with him and sent him forward. It was horribly draining, but he healed every last wounded person on that ship, including the pirates. Three sailors, two knights, and four pirates had died, and the surviving sailors slid the corpses into the hungry sea. John watched exhaustedly before slumping heavily against the railing, sliding down until he was sprawled out on the deck. Sleep overtook him quickly, the sound of corpses hitting water the only thing to break through and follow him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research has told me that if pirates sailed with both a red and a black flag, each conveyed a very different message. If the black flag was put up, they would give quarter. If it was the red one, there would be no quarter, and they would take no prisoners.  
> Learning!


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock studied the sleeping knight closely, despite the furious look on the older knight's face. He crouched before the unconscious figure, letting his mind answer questions that had begun to swirl to the surface. This knight, called John, was different from the others. He wasn't raised from nobility. He had been a soldier and then brought into the ranks, likely by the older man, Greg. He'd been wounded in a battle, though it was an old injury that rarely aggrieved him and didn't impede him in the least. And he was a Healer, though this was new information.

When he reached out to touch John, Greg slunk forward with a growl. Sherlock turned on him with a grim smile.

"Why are you so protective of him?" he asked, getting to his feet and meeting Greg on the deck. He noted the way Greg looked at John and barely restrained a self-pleased smirk. "I see. Your son died, and you're making do with the knight that you trained. And before you ask how I knew that, I saw you two fight together; he shares a lot of the same quirks that you have."

Greg sighed heavily, smearing a hand over his face. A pang of guilt sounded somewhere deep in Sherlock's head, followed closely by sympathy. If he had known this man better, he would have offered his belated condolences, but alas, they were strangers. They were his prisoners.

Still, he wouldn't be needlessly cruel.

"Greg, is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and pitching his voice somewhere near friendly.

"Yeah. Sir Gregory Lestrade, once a detective inspector, now a knight for His Majesty," the prisoner said slowly, tiredly. He looked exhausted.

"Well, it's...interesting to meet you, Lestrade. Captain Sherlock Holmes." He held out a hand, offering the most charming smile he could. He found that charm made people more willing to do what he wanted, and he used it liberally. It came as no surprise when Lestrade shook his hand.

"You as well, mate," he said. Before he released the captain's hand, he shoved his shirt cuff up, exposing the vulnerable underside of his wrist, and the brand seared onto it. It was a simple, curving P, marking him. It showed a lot of interesting things, though: that he'd been caught and had escaped, and that he was a criminal on the run. It served to intimidate those who needed to be intimidated, and infuriated those who were made weak in their rage. Sherlock did not cover the scar purposely, because he knew the unintentional value of it.

Lestrade, predictably enough, sneered at the captain.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, innocence ringing insincerely through the hollow word.

"I— I'm not sure what I expected," Lestrade admitted, releasing Sherlock's wrist as though it offended him personally. "It's obvious by now that you're a pirate. It's just...old habits die hard."

Sherlock knew exactly what those habits were. He'd grown up in Londos, seen more pirates hanged than he could count. Laws were slightly more lenient, thanks to the horrible new king, but it was still fairly dangerous to be a criminal in the kingdom. At least his brand had come from a completely different port.

"Remember, I'm the one with the terrifying crew," Sherlock said with a dull smile. Lestrade responded with a grimace, and it was all the captain could do not to laugh.

* * *

He could feel it in the air like electricity. It meant that The Saviours had been found by the Fates and were on their way to his prison. Glee was something he'd nearly forgotten, tasting of blood and honey under his tongue. It thrummed in the threads of his veins and he howled with laughter and madness as his salvation drew inexorably closer.

* * *

John woke in an unfamiliar room, swaying ever so slightly and sounding with the sloshing that _had_ become familiar to him. There were large glass windows in this swaying room which allowed reddening sunlight to pour in, and he was certain that he'd not been in here before. With a groan, he sat up, taking in the maps, velvet, and frenetic mess spread over the room. Books were everywhere, in stacks and lying open, from treatises on farming to medical texts to illustrated holy books. A few small glass dishes sat on the sill of one of the large windows, and John crinkled his nose at the fuzzy, muted masses growing in them.

"You're finally awake," said a voice that John knew in the back of his head. It hadn't been too long since he'd heard it. He turned to his head and stared at the lanky pirate who'd tried to take the ship earlier. His hair fell in dark ringlets just over the collar of his fine black coat, and he wore more chains and jewels than was acceptable for anyone other than one of his sort. His smile was rakish and cheerful enough, but his pale eyes were coldly calculating.

"Where am I?" John asked, blinking heavily and thinking of standing. Such thoughts were met with distaste, and maybe a bit of dizziness.

"My quarters," the pirate said easily. "Welcome."

John frowned. This was a cabin befitting a captain, and judging by the amount of jewelry on this man's person, he was the captain. It didn't answer much, unfortunately.

"So who are you?"

The pirate sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, clearly offended by John's ignorance.

"I'm the captain, the supreme commander of this vessel," he said imperiously. John glowered.

"So I've gathered. Who are you, though?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You're John Watson, once a soldier, now a knight and Healer."

"How did you know?" John asked, leaning forward slightly. Sherlock rattled through a list of observations, laying out his family history and career path, as well as the injury he'd sustained as a soldier. He got everything right, amazingly enough.

"Wow," John breathed. "That was amazing!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes thawing just so slightly.

"Do you really think so?"

There was something so childish and vulnerable in the edges of his voice, and John barely restrained a snort at the thought of sympathy for a pirate. He did valiantly restrain that snort, however, and smiled up at the captain.

"Yes, it was brilliant."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock admitted after a moment.

"And what do they usually say?"

"'Piss off.'"

John couldn't help giggling at this imperious and noble pirate captain saying such a thing, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It looked like it was unfamiliar to his face, and John felt quite proud of himself for making him smile at all.

"So, getting back to the subject at hand: I take it I'm in your quarters in _your_ ship?"

"Indeed you are."

"Right, and I've been taken prisoner?"

"You and quite a lot of the crew. I've left most of the knights in the hold of the other ship, however."

John snorted, relieved that they were at least alive. He was glad that some of the crew had been left so they could retreat to Londos.

"And is Greg a prisoner as well? Because I wouldn't like it if he wasn't."

A small, sardonic smile crossed Sherlock's face.

"Don't worry, he's with Miss Hooper. He is in good hands."

"All right, well, I suppose that's fine. Now, I'm starved. A good captain would have fed his prisoner by now, you know."

Sherlock chuckled and turned back to the door.

"If you insist on being fed, then I'll be back with food soon."

"It's all I ask."

* * *

Molly smiled brightly at the handsome, grey-haired man sitting with her in Mrs Hudson's cabin. She was playing with a knife, twirling it in her hands and unable to feel the way it sliced into her toughened skin.

"So, you're a knight," she said cheerfully, pleased at the way he grinned back.

"Yes, and you're a pirate," he replied, winking at her. She couldn't help the blush that rose to her cheeks, but she certainly did like it. Not many people joked around with her, either seeing her as too delicate to handle humour or too frightening to even talk to. She _did_ like being terrifying, but it made conversation a bit difficult.

"I am!" she chirped. "It's wonderful, going on all those adventures and seeing the world. It's a much better life than the one I was expecting, before Captain Holmes added me to the crew roster."

"Was...was the life you left a bad one?"

"Oh, not at all! Just, well, people have different expectations of women. Get married, have children, be boring. I never wanted any of that. Well," and here she blushed hotly, "maybe the first two, one day, but definitely not the last! I don't— I don't want to just be a line in some man's story!"

Greg's smile was bright and sincere. "To be honest, Miss Hooper, I've seen you fight; you clearly have your own thick book for your own story."

Molly flushed a deeper shade of red, pleased with what Greg had told her. She already knew that she'd never just be someone's wife, that she was meant to do something important in her own right, but it was lovely to hear someone other than Mrs Hudson or Sherlock say so.

After a few flustered, awkward moments, Greg cleared his throat.

"So, uh, as your prisoner on this ship...what can I expect?"

Molly's laugh was quiet and only half-sincere. She'd nearly forgotten why this man was here, talking to her like a person rather than an empty, pretty head or a pair of lethal hands and swords.

"Ah, well, usually we just keep prisoners in the hold until the captain decides what to do with them, but this is a bit...different."

Greg perked up at that, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward.

"How so?"

"I don't know," she admitted quietly. "The captain doesn't usually take prisoners at all, and he's _never_ changed his mind like that. He finds you and John interesting. He likes interesting."

"That's...good?" Greg asked.

"Yes, it is. Until, of course, you're not interesting anymore. So, my advice to you: just keep doing what you're doing and don't say anything too dumb around him. But don't worry too much, I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Well, if you're the one saying it, I'm sure it's true."

* * *

The beast beat his wings heavily against the dark sky, doing as he hadn't done for millennia and searching for a way out. It wasn't enough that he'd been turned into a dragon, of all things; he had to be stuck on this forsaken island until the man in the mountain was freed. It was the most unbearable punishment, knowing that his own freedom was linked inexorably with the crafty fool who'd put him in this body in the first place.

Now, after spending thousands of years suffering the penance of a hungry body and strict border, he couldn't help but feel that it was the sentence he most deserved. When they allowed their lands to burn and the inhabitants to perish, they both knew that the punishment would be severe, and well-deserved.

Well, _he_ knew. The man in the mountain was still convinced that his imprisonment was unjust. The beast had at least tried to stop destruction so very long ago. The man in the mountain had ensured it. He was a poison, a sickness, a blight on existence itself, and the beast had tried so many times to kill him. The punishment included, in all its justice, a trap that killed the beast if the man died before he was freed, and it was a price the beast was more than willing to pay. Unfortunately, the man had always been far too good with words, so he still lived, and the beast still hungered.

It took a minor shadow god with the blackest disposition to properly understand hope, and he knew that he had none. He would suffer for the other's crimes until time itself was ended, and while he wasn't fond of the fact, it was there all the same.

Until, of course, the air took that cackling, horrible, beautiful quality that meant that the Saviours were near.

 _There might be hope yet_ , the beast thought to himself as he screeched through the electrified air. The man in the mountain might yet die.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update's been a little slow. I'm sorry to say that my previous assumption that things would be fairly regular were straight-up lies, as I've been a bit frantic getting things together for a big move. But, worry not, I'll do my best to post as often as I can!  
> And, in order to raise spirits and promise that I won't desert this thing: things are about to get real in the next chapter, yo. As it should be.

Life as the prisoner of Sherlock Holmes was interesting, to say the least. During the first day, John was kept in Sherlock's cabin, always with a guard. Sometimes it was a kind, older woman with a lilting voice and a gun like Sherlock's at her hip. Usually, though, it was the captain himself, muttering softly about things that barely registered with John and checking after the mould cultures on the sill. There was a beautiful microscope on the old, ornate desk that Sherlock spent most of his time staring into.

Slowly, like dawn creeping in on the heels of night, something rather like friendship bloomed. Sherlock appreciated John's thoughts, clever and mundane alike. He found the knight fascinating, and John in turn was enthralled by the pirate. On the second day, he was allowed out of the cabin.

While wandering the swaying deck, he ran into the slight, terrifying woman who'd helped take over the king's ship two days prior.

"Oh!" she yelped, smiling up at John just a bit. "I see you're allowed out!" "Yes, it would appear so," John said lightly. In all honestly, he didn't feel like a prisoner, but an unexpected guest. No one tried to shackle him to things, there were no demands to walk the plank...

He grimaced internally when he realised that Greg's ridiculous notions of seafarers had infected him as well.

"Well, that's great! Greg's been allowed out as well, so you'll probably run into him fairly soon. Um, do you know where the captain is?"

"Oh, yes, Sherlock's in his cabin. I'd be a bit careful: he's playing with lye."

"Good to know. Nice seeing you, John!" And before the knight could answer, she ran in the direction of the captain's quarters, weaponry clanging against her hips as she did.

He rested against the railing of the ship, staring out at the endless expanse of greyish blue, feeling the cold salt spray on his face. It was an odd situation, certainly, but maybe the captain knew something, just like Greg had seemed to know about his Healing abilities. Perhaps Sherlock was a Seer. It would make sense, as he seemed to know everything about John from the get-go. It was the most logical explanation.

As Molly had predicted, Greg had turned up soon enough with a smile on his face.

"Is it me, or is this the strangest imprisonment ever?" the older knight asked as he leaned against the rail like John, facing the ship rather than the water. John laughed brightly.

"I'll have to say that it is," he agreed. "Are you even sure we're considered prisoners anymore? I mean, when you were in the police, you didn't let criminals just wander around, did you?"

"We're not criminals, though; more like hostages."

"Oi, you know what I meant."

Greg sighed heavily, face scrunched in thought.

"I don't think we're their hostages anymore. We're not quite guests, I'd say, but we're important. Otherwise, we wouldn't have been brought here. That Holmes bloke doesn't seem like he'd just bring us on board because he wanted to, you know? Well, you probably do. Better than I do, at least."

John's only response was to shrug. He studied the way the sun set without fanfare, the sky just barely tinged purplish blue as it seemed to sink into the water. It didn't distract him from Greg's questions, nor did it distract him from his own. It felt like putting off the inevitable.

* * *

Greg hadn't sailed often, and he did have a strange notion of seafarers as a whole, but in his few voyages, he'd picked up a bit of knowledge. For example, the fiery red sky rang little bells in his head.

 _Red sky at morning,_ he quoted to himself with a small shiver. _Sailors take warning._

"You're not an idiot," came a discomfortingly familiar voice at his side. Greg frowned at the captain who'd come to stand beside him.

"Should I thank you?" the knight quipped. Sherlock smirked, but did not acknowledge his response.

"Unfortunately, quite a lot of my crew _are_ idiots," he went on. "They're already uneasy about going to the island. A storm will only fuel their anxiety."

"Why are you telling me this? Are you expecting me to stop a mutiny or something? Are you scared and need me to tell you it'll all be fine?"

Greg sounded a bit annoyed, but the small smile belied his gruffness.

"I'm telling you because you're not an idiot," the pirate said simply. "And John's asleep, so I have to make do. Ordinarily, I have a skull I like to talk to, but Mrs Hudson has taken it again, so here I am."

"Wait, _skull_?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow. The captain just shrugged.

"I call him Billy. Getting back to the matter at hand, though: you've noticed the red sky."

"Well, yeah, how could I not?"

"Good point. We all know that it's a perfectly ordinary weather phenomenon that has proven to be more than lore. Unfortunately, my crew will likely see it as an omen."

"Why is everyone so damned nervous about that island? I mean, gods, our _king_ sent us to slay a beast there. It's madness."

Sherlock cocked his head, studying the knight.

"You don't think it's real," he said softly. Greg shrugged.

"Well, no. I mean, knights heading off to slay dragons—that's only real in fairy tales. I'm only surprised that we're not rescuing some poor virgin or princess."

"Oh, no," Sherlock intoned, pressing his palms together and resting his steepled fingertips just under his lower lip. "It's something much worse than that."

Greg was dimly reminded of something the Seer had said, about a dragon guarding something terrible. What was it he had said?

_Something far more terrible than the world had ever seen._

"What's on that island?" Greg asked slowly, fear reaching its shadowed tendrils into his heart.

"A god."

* * *

Whoever had decided that the god of darkness and his shadowed compatriot were good guardians for the young lands of Anglia had been a fool. A right idiot, allowing a madman and a minor trickster to keep watch over the place. He knew now that it had been a test, a final evaluation to see how good they were before sending them off to their punishments. They had been given a nascent land with such volatile people, and they were told to make it good. They were meant to turn it into a flourishing, beautiful place.

The Dark God had simply sat back and watched as these unsettled beings in their care began to bur from the inside. It wasn't long before everything was burning and the Dark God just laughed and forced the stillness of his inferior trickster follower.

So many years later, the beast had forgotten their names. They called themselves new names, arbitrary names. He was Sebastian now, the Dark God was Jim. He never called the Dark God by that name; he was just the mad man in the mountain below. He was trapped deep in its heart, beyond the tangled and twisting labyrinths and in the shadowed centre. The whole inside of the mountain was strewn with treasure, mazes, and doors that opened into nothing. It was the most lavish, opulent, terrible prison, as befitted one of the most terrible entities the world would ever know.

The man in the mountain was more than just a dark god or a madman. He was intensely powerful and perfectly insane. He had nightmares of grandeur and worlds encased in flames while he danced in the inferno. So long ago, Sebastian had admired the dark, now fallen, god. He'd worshiped him. He'd loved him.

And now, here they were, thousands of years later, an eternally hungry dragon and a man trapped in the bowels of a mountain-turned prison. He'd had millennia to wonder if it was worth it, if _he_ had been worth it, and once he got past the hatred, he found a deep well of resignation. He wouldn't have chosen the same path if he'd been given a chance to try again, but now that it was done, he found mourning it was pointless.

He just sighed deeply, as only a reptilian beast is able, and settled in to wait for the Ones who would either free or destroy the god.

* * *

"When he was cast into the mountain, the treasure he'd hoarded had been trapped in there with him. Millions and millions of years worth of treasure, from humans and gods alike. Most of it was perfectly ordinary, but some of it had powerful magic attached. Inside the mountain, however, all magic was impossible. All of the treasure was ordinary. And all of it extremely valuable. But, there's more to it than that, of course."

"Oh, of course," Greg said dully. As wonderful an audience as John made, there was something about the jaded police officer that Sherlock found pleasing. He felt that this knight could become a friend. John felt slightly different, like a limb being returned to the rest of his body, or anchoring in his home port.

These two knights had proven to be very fortuitous finds indeed.

"There was one item that had been trapped with the god that still retained its power," he went on. "However, it was useless without a spark to ignite it. In the legendary hoard of the fallen god is a key."

"A key," Greg echoed skeptically. Sherlock nodded, ever the sage.

"Indeed. The key to his freedom. I'm given to believe that it's not an actual key, hardly anything as pedestrian as that, but nevertheless. He was trapped in this insurmountable prison with his key, knowing that he could never escape without that spark."

"And...is any of this real?" Greg asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Sherlock, who was sitting behind his desk in the cabin, smirked and leaned back, steepling his hands under his bottom lip.

"That sounds a lot like heresy, Lestrade," the captain drawled. "Are you saying you don't believe in the Pantheon?"

"Of course I do," Greg snapped. "I'd be an idiot not to. But I've never heard anything about a god being imprisoned in a mountain, on Basker or anywhere else."

"You wouldn't have. Only the scholars and priests know because he's not officially part of the Pantheon anymore. When he was imprisoned, his godhood was revoked. He still has that nonsense that makes a god special, but by this point, it's likely just devolved into impotent rage and powerlessness. It's not forbidden to know about him and the trickster, but he's no longer common knowledge. He's been collectively forgotten."

"And how do you know about him, Captain?" Greg quirked a sardonic brow, and Sherlock knew that, yes, he'd found himself a friend.

"I was a scholar," Sherlock admitted. "I studied the Pantheon and science."

"Really?" Greg asked. "I'm surprised."

"Come now, not all pirates were born to poverty and squalidness. I can think of at least one who was born a prince."

There was an uncomfortable pause before Greg said, "I didn't think that."

Sherlock snorted. "No, of course not. You don't have any _ridiculous_ notions of pirates or sailors or anything of the sort after all."

"Exactly."

* * *

The Seer walked into the study as had been requested. The imperious, imposing man sat behind the desk looked up with his lips pressed into a thin line. He waved a hand, single garnet ring glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the grand window.

"Please sit, Mister Stamford," the man said smoothly. Mike nodded deferentially, sitting in the ornate chair on the other side of the desk.

"You requested an audience, Your Majesty?"

"Indeed I have," the king said. "I know I usually seek your counsel every other week or so, but extenuating circumstances require that I see you now, rather than next week."

Mike barely repressed a smirk as he blinked at his monarch.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Is it about your brother or the knights?"

"I suppose I should ask you about whichever requires the most attention," the king said, a wry twist to his lips. "Really, it could be either."

"Surprisingly, sir, this time it's both."

The king raised an eyebrow, thoroughly masking his horror. Of course, anything and everything was visible to a Seer, especially one of his calibre.

"Perhaps you should elaborate."

So Mike explained to him and watched the horror slowly leach into his ordinarily impenetrable eyes. It was terrible, especially with what he knew, but it had to happen. It was the way the Fates had woven it, and there was no way to deviate from the set path, no matter how badly on wished it were so.

He didn't offer condolences, though he thought he should have. The king worried enough about his brother as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look how beautiful that 10,000 word mark is! And to think that this isn't even done. This is officially my longest work that's not a series.  
> Go me/Sherlock/fantasy AUs!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since the last update! I've been at a new university for past couple of weeks, so it's been a lot of learning to live on my own/with strangers as well as keeping my grades up. I am an idiot for choosing a chemistry minor. Meh, such is the life.  
> I said that things would be getting real in this chapter, but let's be real here: I barely have any idea what I'm doing. That's cool, at least we're getting closer to bringing our main forces together! Probably! I should stop saying things.

The sky had been mutely dark for hours, swelling and roiling so far above the churning grey sea. When the storm came, it was abrupt and horrible. Wind tore at the ship, tossing it violently upon the frothing water. Rain pelted and saltwater sloshed over the sides and lightning illuminated the world in terrible violet cracks of light. Sherlock had been sailing for years, and he'd lived for years longer than that, but he had never seen such a terrible storm.

The crew was hardly prepared. They had expected some inclement weather, but this tempest ripped through everything like paper.

At least three men fell overboard.

He didn't want to think of it as an omen, of course not. He was more logical than that. But, when presented with the facts, it was difficult to ignore the possibility. It pained him to think it, but perhaps it would be best if they did not undertake this fool's errand.

The first thing he did when the storm snapped and shattered was ensure the safety of his cultures and microscope. The second thing he did was ensure the safety of the four people he found most valuable on this ship. He gathered Lestrade, Watson, Hudson, and Hooper into his cabin, frowning at his brother's voice in his head as it murmured about _sentiment_.

"Should we be worried?" John asked, taking a seat on that grey velvet couch. Anyone with half a brain and even a bit of an interest could read his habits in the wear in the pile. He saw John study the wear patterns, and he felt something akin to pride at that. He'd known this man for only a couple of days, but it was that intrinsic sort of friendship he felt. It was strange, but...nice.

"It's just a storm, John," Sherlock said sharply, in an effort to mask his own concern. "Don't be an idiot."

"But it's not just a storm, is it?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. "You think it has something to do with the god."

"Which god? The sea god? Did you forget to make the sacrifice, Sherlock Holmes?" Mrs Hudson glowered at the captain, as any mother would. She was the only one who could really make him feel like a foolish child.

" _No_ ," he said sullenly, barely restraining the urge to poke his tongue out at her. He had made the sacrifices before unmooring the ship, just as any seaman would do. He'd made the basic sacrifice to the sea, cutting off a lock of hair and dropping it into the water, watching as it dissolved, or was perhaps snatched away from the surface by the ocean itself. Next, he'd made the second sacrifice, the one captains made to keep their ships safe. He took the knife, consecrated in salt water, sliced open the pads of his thumb and forefinger, and let at least one drop of each fall into the water and bloom like ink.

"Not the sea god," Lestrade clarified. Sherlock glared, but he went on, "The fallen god."

"Who?" Molly asked, scrunching her nose in confusion. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock told the story of the fallen god and his treasure, including the key. John was enthralled, but extremely wary.

"And you're still planning on going to this mountain to get that treasure, even though there's a chance this storm may have something to do with that god, right?" he asked, looking up at Sherlock like a tree pointing to the sun.

"Well, yes. Of course I am.

" "Then get out there and tell them that it'll be fine and let's go get that treasure!"

If Sherlock had been a different sort of man, he probably would have cheered, or maybe slap the younger knight on the back. As it was, as _he_ was, he simply smiled. After all this time even in a position of power, it had been so long since he'd found someone who was genuinely eager to propel his mad ideas.

"So, what do we do if the storm _is_ from this god?" Molly asked, sitting up a bit straighter behind Sherlock's desk. "Should we assume that he's trying to destroy us and keep us from getting there?"

Sherlock shrugged, briefly willing to admit that, for once, he simply didn't know.

"Perhaps. What's that phrase? Preparing for the worst...?"

"'Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,'" John supplied helpfully, looking pleased as he did so. Sherlock nodded curtly.

"Precisely. It wouldn't be a bad idea to prepare as though the purpose of the storm is to see us dead. If it _is_ the reason, then we'll be safer. If it's not, then, well, we can outlast most things."

Lestrade and Hudson nodded sagely, agreeing with Sherlock. Molly looked like she was trying not to smile _too_ broadly at the idea that Sherlock had _agreed_ with her about something. She was very wise, and he would snarl it at anyone who questioned the idea, but he had never been particularly good at telling people good things.

"And when we get to the island?" Lestrade asked, slouching against a wall. It was a particularly impressive feat, as the ship was rolling in the storm. Above their heads, they heard creaking wood and cracking ropes and hoarse yells and running steps. Water sloshed threateningly on the deck above.

"We kill the god before he kills us."

"And is it easy?" Lestrade snapped. "To kill a _god_?"

He was baiting Sherlock, dangling the sharpness to see if the captain would reach out and cut his skin open upon it. He wasn't sure what the right answer was, so he answered honestly.

"Not at all," he said slowly, "but I can do it."

What he didn't tell them was the darkest secret that had hovered at the periphery of his mind of the past year. He knew, thanks to a frowning Seer, that he would be successful in his mission, and that it would kill him.

* * *

The storm raged and lashed out at the ship for hours, snarling at the insignificant figures darting around and trying to survive in the face of its fury. Below the roiling deck, four people sat at the demand of the captain. He had gone up to help the crew shortly after their meeting, and Mrs Hudson and Molly worried more than they were willing to admit. John and Greg, who hadn't known him long enough to understand how good Sherlock was at getting himself into danger, had been able to ignore anything even remotely troubling about the thought of the captain going it very nearly alone. The crew above was starting to fracture and even fear him, and in reality, it was better to have a group of pirates love you than fear you.

"When did he start getting interested in getting this treasure?" John asked Molly and Mrs Hudson. "He seems awfully keen about it. Like a childhood dream coming true or something."

Mrs Hudson shook her head, dispelling the idea quickly.

"He only started talking about it about a year ago," she said. "Before, he was content with any treasure. Now, he won't stand anything but the fallen god's hoard. We haven't been on a proper raid in months, he's so consumed."

John shrugged it off, curiosity sated, but Greg had more questions.

"Did something start him off?" he asked, frowning at the other three.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I've known people to get visions from the gods. Most of the time, they're harmless, just little things like, _You'll have a boy_ , but sometimes..."

"Sometimes it's darker," Molly suggested quietly. Greg nodded.

"Yes. If this god is as terrible as he says he is, then what's to say that he's not being spurred on by terrible visions from this god?"

John shook his head violently, rising from the couch and wobbling as he did so. "No, that couldn't be true."

"What makes you so sure?" Greg asked. "You've known him for, what, three days? That isn't enough time to know a person. Not really."

John turned to Molly and Mrs Hudson, imploring. "Would he ever be led astray by such a dark god?" he asked.

His brows were knitting together in concern and consternation. He knew that Greg was saying these things to cover all bases, but Jon didn't want to admit that this man who he was coming to trust so absolutely could potentially be in league with this dark god. He didn't want to believe that Sherlock had such darkness within him in the first place.

"It's happened to even the holiest of men, John," Greg said consolingly. He sighed and rubbed a hand through his silver hair. "I don't want to believe it either, but we can't ignore any possibilities."

No one wanted to believe that this man, this perfectly fallible human with their lives quite truly in his hands, could potentially be a puppet to a god so terrible and deranged that he was cast out of the pantheon and collective knowledge. No one wanted to think that there was any potential that they might not get out of this alive.

The group fell into an uneasy silence, taking in the sounds of the thrashing storm above them. Greg tapped his foot against the worn rug, grimacing at the worn patches near his toe. Molly picked at her nails, looking for all the world like she wanted to run up to the deck and do _something_. John was well-versed in the ways of restlessness and could spot it a mile off. Personally, he was perfectly content to just sit here in the captain's safe quarters, even if he was perhaps a bit anxious about the safety of his new friend. There was nothing he could do on the sloshing surface, though. He was just doing his best to keep his body in the state of easy calm it had kept over the last few days.

They swayed in silence, Mrs Hudson perched on the other end of the grey couch, occasionally tilting into his side.

"How can you be so eager to fight this god if this is what he's like?" Greg asked eventually, pinning John with a sharp stare. John shrugged.

"It's not eagerness. It's just— Some things don't leave soldiers very easily."

To his surprise, Mrs Hudson nodded with understanding and patted him on the forearm.

"I know all about that, dear," she said brightly, smiling with sympathy. "It's always there, the need for an adventure. The need to save someone, anyone from monsters and bad people. It doesn't go away."

John and Greg just blinked at the older woman. It was easy to ignore the fact that she was a pirate, or at least emotionally attached to a bunch of them. Perhaps there was more to her than just sweet smiles and referring to Sherlock as "that boy."

"How long were you a soldier, Mrs Hudson?" John asked, hoping it wasn't too impudent a question.

"Oh, _years_ ," she chirped. "I was recruited, actually, one of the youngest in the army. And then... Well, this hip got me out. And, instead of going back to the farm, I went out and looked for adventures of my own."

As it turned out, Mrs Hudson had been a sailor with a few merchant ships for several years. She'd settled down a while, got married to some wretched bloke who ended up facing the wrong end of Sherlock's sword one day, and she'd been with the captain ever since. He was kind to her, better than the sons she'd never had, and fiercely loyal.

A furious crack rang through the cabin, dropping silence heavily over the four. Above them, the flurry of bodies on the deck stilled.

The storm raged on.

* * *

They were close, they were so close and he could taste their fear. It bled deliciously through the layers of storm and electricity like shadows. The Fates struggled to keep the Saviours away, threatening to put their bodies at the bottom of the ocean, but even destiny was powerful against madness like this. Unless the storm swallowed them whole, the Saviours would straggle toward the island and its prison.

The man in the mountain listened to his once-beloved thrash above him and reveled in his panic. The closer they drew, the more frantic Sebastian became. Soon, he would be a frenetic mess in the outer world and they would be here. Soon, he would be free, and the world would burn at his feet in supplication and punishment.

It would be so beautiful.


End file.
